


Objection (Tango)

by rispacooper



Series: The Slutty Boys 'Verse [3]
Category: Psych
Genre: Anal Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third story in the Slutty Boys ‘Verse. Shawn has this tremendous blind spot where Lassi concerned, ever notice? Why provoke him all the time when he could guess perfectly well how to get on his good side if he really wanted to? Perhaps he’s distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objection (Tango)

In about half a second someone was going to get annoyed enough with his silence to say something, and judging from his recent mood swing—from grumpy sour-puss to new levels of silent fuming grumpy sour-puss—Shawn would have staked his bike on Lassiter being the one to blow. But the police were the ones who had dragged him here in the first place—okay maybe not _dragged_ , since he’d had to impress the Chief with a bit of mind reading to get this opportunity and then he and Gus had had to follow the police down here. Whatever, the point was, here he was, trying to help out, so really, a little patience wasn’t too much to ask.

Not that he’s in trouble. Because it’s not so much that he’s stumped for answers—or even more questions—though, _yes_ , even a question would be helpful. Because clues are here, they must be. Shawn just…can’t see any. And pretty soon all the cops in this room were going to expect something from him and even though Shawn isn’t wrong, and even though this in no way reflects on his abilities as a pretend psychic, he may still have to bluff his way out of this one until he gets rid of this itch in his head that says he’s missing something obvious.

It’s…incredibly frustrating…because the answer is probably right in front of his face. As his father used to say—still says, not that Shawn has to listen—there are always clues; an odd magazine, a strange choice of words, a void in the dust, whatever they were, they are always there. Just…in this case, it’s more like the absence of clues _was_ the clue.

Now if he knew what that meant, he’d be golden.

There are people watching him. Which is no surprise, he is an amazing psychic detective after all. But somehow these don’t feel like stares of expectation or admiration. Nobody’s holding their breath or oohing and awing, though the room is quiet enough that he can hear Jules shifting her feet, and overlaying that the low, harsh sound of Lassi grinding his teeth. If he looks over, Lassi will be clenching his jaw and staring at him with two narrowed, hot blue eyes. His long, slender fingers will most likely be curled into his palms at his sides, something Shawn knows as well as he knows that whatever’s been making Lassi even crankier than he usually is—the divorce, his ex, the house hunt, his brains skips through possible causes without settling on one and Shawn tries to shake the thoughts away—Lassi will end up taking it out on him if he doesn’t shut his mouth.

Shawn puts up his hand to shield his eyes to look around the scene of the crime, again, the scene of a senseless, seemingly motive-less murder, a place where an innocent woman had been gunned down execution-style— _that’s one to the head, two the chest, Shawn_ , he hears in his father’s voice—a place where you could get two suits cleaned and pressed for twenty dollars with the Two-for-One Sunday Special.

“What, no auras today, Spencer?” Lassi’s dry little remark brings Shawn’s gaze away from the faded sign on one wall of Supercleaners and even though he mentally awards himself his bike back due to the predictably of Carlton Lassiter, he still makes a point of giving a dramatic sigh and dropping his hand. He looks over and finds Lassi staring over the counter at the door leading to the back and all the dry-cleaning…machine…devices.

“Gone.” Shawn throws his arms up. “It’s gone now. I think there _may_ have been some negative vibes blocking it. I sense something…a tall, wispy figure…dark…with a love of fluffy cats and porcelain statues…a malevolent yet cuddly force that definitely wants to silence me…” He doesn’t look at Lassiter; he looks at Jules who is looking impeccably lovely as she glares at Lassiter on his behalf. She’s in white and beige today, all business, but a few wisps of her hair are settling around her forehead, softening the look. Of course even if they hadn’t been there, there was nothing especially hard about her. Lassi on the other hand is all lean strength and scowling features, which makes it odd that Lassiter actually takes his attention from the oh-so-fascinating closed door to respond to her.

Someone is going to have to talk to Lassi about that. Aside from the occasional, anonymous gesture concerning bikes and tickets, Lassiter is not supposed to surprise anyone anymore than he’s supposed to find doors interesting.

Shawn glances to them from the corner of his eye and before pursing his lips and clasping his hands together. “I think the real tragedy here is that I almost had something…”

“Oh cut the crap, Spencer.” Lassi grunts immediately and Shawn lifts his head. Lassiter is rolling his eyes at Jules when Shawn finally swings around to look at him, but Shawn catches a glimpse of pissed-off, pure blue eyes, the furrowed forehead, and he keeps on swinging, doing a full circle. He winds up staring at a Uniform he doesn’t know yet and the Chief, who is also glaring at Lassiter.

“Detective if you keep interrupting I’m going to send you someplace where you’ll be more useful—and quiet.”

“Directing traffic?” The fact that Lassiter actually snaps back at the Chief brings Shawn up short, and maybe Lassi too, because he lowers his voice a bit. “I mean…”

“Actually I was thinking the department psychiatrist…” Sometimes the Chief runs about even with Shawn’s dad for horrible suggestions, and this is one of those times. Her faint smile is just _evil_ and _wrong_ and Shawn flinches away from just the thought of therapy, unable to really imagine Lassiter sitting on a couch talking about his feelings either.

Though to be hidden under a desk in that room were such an event ever to actually take place, eavesdropping on the intimate thoughts of Carlton Lassiter…that might almost be worth the pain he’d undoubtedly be in after Lassiter caught him.

Because of course Lassiter _would_ catch him. Shawn’s pretty sure of that. At least 89% sure, if Gus should ask. Lassiter was completely paranoid. The moment he heard the tiniest hint of muffled laughter he’d stand up and charge around the room, looking behind the doors, then under the desk. He’d find Shawn and loom over him, his eyes wide in disbelief. Then he’d yank Shawn up by the back of his shirt and shove him forward, breaking out those handcuffs with less thought than it took him to breathe, and Shawn would have to say something, probably something about how he hadn’t known Carlton had felt that way about his mother, and then Shawn would end up pinned down hard on the desk top with Lassiter pressed against his back, Lassiter’s breath in his ear as he growled something intimidating.

“Uh…Shawn?”

Shawn blinks and focuses on Gus, who is giving him one of his patented Gus expressions. This is one is concern mingled with just a _hint_ of impatient. Shawn shrugs at him and makes the smallest gesture around the room, which is actually the waiting area in front of the counter of the _cleanest dry-cleaners in Santa Barbara_. It’s not his fault there’s nothing to see. It was no wonder Lassiter and the rest of the police were at a dead end. The woman hadn’t even been robbed, and the way the shop was located down a small flight of stairs and below street level meant there hadn’t been any witnesses. It was like the perfect place to commit a murder.

Shawn makes a face, bringing himself back to the investigation, and looks up at the clock that says it’s exactly 6pm, and the small window next to that just in time to see a pair of shiny shoes moving as someone heads down the stairs and into the cleaners.

“Wait!” he shouts so abruptly that even the Chief winces. He remembers to put a hand to his head and close his eyes for the second it takes to make his prediction. “Someone’s coming.”

As a momentary stall, it’s perfect, but even still frowning Lassiter immediately turns to look at the entrance and Shawn’s grin falters, his smile slipping totally away a moment later when the bell chimes and the door opens and a man in a suit steps inside.

“H-stock!” Shawn gets the name out right before Hornstock looks up and actually sees all of them standing there, staring back at him, and Shawn doesn’t think he looks scary—that might just be Lassiter’s face—or maybe Hornstock is still worried about what happened between them at Tom Blair’s, but Hornstock’s eyes get about as big as his mouth when it falls open and then he steps back and puts a hand on the doorknob like he’s going to turn around and make a break for it.

Only Hornstock seems to recover a minute later, closing his mouth and straightening up. He jerks a nod at Shawn, even attempting a smile, then glances over to Lassiter before Shawn can toss him a grin back. And okay, that’s a little weird. Until Shawn looks over at Lassiter, and sees that Lassi is scowling and obviously unhappy and, why yes, that is a blush stealing across his stern, Irish features.

Shawn waits, either for an explosion, or an embarrassed glance in his direction, since after all, he hadn’t bothered to hide from Lassiter exactly what had happened in that bathroom at the bar. But Lassiter clears his throat and shuts his jaw tight and doesn’t even make the smallest attempt to look at Shawn. Neither does Hornstock.

Shawn looks down, and his red shirt isn’t wrinkle-free but it is clean, and complements the green in his eyes. His hair is freshly styled and glossy, and his cuticles are all neatly in order. His mild tan makes him a glowing model for health and relaxation. There is absolutely no reason that Hornstock shouldn’t be looking at him; especially now that he knows first-hand just how talented Shawn is in the gentlemanly art of fellatio.

“Shawn…Detective…” Hornstock greets them both, then swallows loudly. It’s probably a coincidence that the sound actually, _finally_ brings an employee out from the back. The employees here must have learned to tune out the door chime, because when they’d first arrived to look back over the crime scene, Lassiter had had to bang on the counter to get someone to come out. Maybe the dry-cleaning machinery was making them all deaf. Shawn ponders that in the back of his mind while he watches Hornstock carefully inch his way around them.

The victim—and the killer—could have been here for a while without an employee even knowing. They certainly wouldn’t have heard a gunshot if the killer had used a silencer. It all makes sense, except they still didn’t have anything tying one to the other, the employees had never even seen the woman before and…

“Did you need something?” Lassiter clears his throat and interrupts Shawn’s thought, bringing his gaze up. Lassiter is moving aside to let Hornstock pass and Shawn blinks once or twice. Because while he knows Lassiter certainly has manners, or at least assumes he does, he’s never actually seen them directed at anyone connected to a case. And Lassiter has been barking at anyone dumb enough to get too near him for the past two weeks, not even hesitating to yell at the little old lady who had bumped into him—who okay, had turned out to be a pickpocket, but which had still been unnecessary, even for Lassi.

Hornstock’s eyes fly up to Lassi’s face then finally slide back over to Shawn before he makes it to the counter.

“I’m here for my clothes,” he says, with just a trace of isn’t-it-obvious in his voice, something he’d probably gotten from Gus along with his taste in neckties. He’s got another flashy one on now, something teal and yellow and black. It’s startling next to his dark suit, attention-getting. Attention-seeking. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a ticket and while he’s waiting he glances around again at all of them. Lassi’s eyes fall to the floor. “Should I ask what’s going on?”

“We’re all here to lend moral support to Lassi as he gets over his irrational fear of dry-cleaners,” Shawn responds instantly and five pairs of eyes fix on him in disbelief. Lassi just keeps on frowning, like he’s not surprised at all. He doesn’t even twitch, though his jaw clenches just a little bit tighter.

Shawn sweeps a look down, at Lassiter’s new pale blue, polka-dotted tie that exactly, unfortunately, matches his pale blue suit. His shoes are gleaming, though well-worn and scuffed. The floor is still clean, and he doesn’t get why Lassiter is studying it so intently when there’s so much growling he could be doing. The absence of his sharp glare is so obvious Shawn opens his mouth to ask about it, closing it at the last second when Gus steps forward.

“You chose a bad time to pick up your dry cleaning.” Gus fills in Hornstock and Shawn raises his eyebrows loftily, not needing to turn to know Gus is shooting him annoyed looks. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”

“I always get my dry-cleaning at 6 on Thursdays.” Hornstock answers, that little edge of sarcasm in his voice again, and really, Shawn hadn’t helped him regain his confidence just so he could start getting snippy. Nor did he help him regain his confidence just to have him start talking only to Lassiter, though it is nice to get the chance to use the word “nor”.

But aimed at Lassi or not, Hornstock’s words sink into Shawn’s brain anyway and he freezes. He doesn’t need to close his eyes to recall the arranged and color-coordinated shoe closet, the labeled refrigerator contents, the day-planners filled with neat, short hand notes showing the same schedule week after week. The victim’s sister went beyond neat freak and organized into full-on OCD, and if she hadn’t been about to get married he might have made a joke about her being perfect for Lassiter just to watch that pissed-off, fake smile come and go on Lassi’s face.

Nobody has moved yet and Shawn squeezes his eyes closed and lunges forward with his arms outstretched. The startled, rough exclamation that slips out of Lassi’s mouth doesn’t even slow him down. He just angles his head away, as though listening to some far off sound and spreads his hands out on Lassi’s chest. Lassi is looking up now, his eyes big, shocked blue pools that some people would want to do cannonballs into, dive into like the water in Cabo, drowning in heat that spreads out from his hands to his arms and his chest.

Lassiter is the kind of guy who wears a t-shirt under his dress shirt, but Shawn can still feel his body heat through the layers of clothing, the faint outline of muscle that means Lassiter has been working out more lately, which makes sense considering how testy he’s been, even by Lassiter’s already high standards of testy, how Lassiter is a guy to bury his anger in something else when he can’t express it. Like something’s eating Lassiter up inside and that actually makes Shawn pause, laying a hand over the other man’s heart and catching the fast, pounding rhythm.

“What is it?” Juliet wonders softly from his side. She’s so far away her breath is cool when it brushes his cheek. He shivers and Lassiter breathes in but doesn’t say a single word.

Shawn’s palms itch, so he moves them.

“Frustration,” Shawn responds shortly without thinking then shakes his head and slides his hands down a little further, over seriously hard ridges of muscle. “I’m getting something.” Lassiter sucks in another deep breath but the raspy sound is all Shawn hears. “Clothes…no…more. It’s more…intimate…than that.” He curls his hands until he’s cupping imaginary breasts on Lassiter’s chest and even though that finally makes Lassiter slap his hands away, everyone else is silent, spellbound.

Shawn curls his fingers into his warm palms before bringing his hands right back to Lassiter. He traces a touch down Lassiter’s ribs and feels his heart thump under the touch again for a moment. His shirt is cheap, and scratches against his skin.

“Spencer…” Lassi warns and the growl rumbles against Shawn’s fingers, almost tickling, and Shawn has to angle his side for a second to hide his grin.

“Something…close to the skin,” he lowers his voice a moment later, exhaling and letting his hands dip somewhere new, to Lassiter’s stomach, his waist, along his belt. Lassiter doesn’t push him away this time, and Shawn shakes his head, breathing hard as he waits. He can feel the pull of Lassiter’s shirt as his chest expands, wonders if it rubs against pale skin where it’s not protected by the t-shirt. It must feel dry, rough like the air escaping Lassi’s throat. “Something a woman would wear,” he announces finally, his hands still on Lassiter, his voice high, and Gus coughs. Loud. Like he swallowed a tennis ball and if he doesn’t cough he might die.

Shawn cracks open one eye and Lassiter’s face is so closed and tight he looks like he’s going to implode. His hands are fists at his side and even knowing he should take a step back Shawn stays right where he is. He licks his lips and swallows, but Lassiter doesn’t seem to notice, he’s looking down at Shawn’s hands, or maybe at his shirt, it’s hard to tell.

Everything about Lassiter that makes him Lassi is missing. He’s turned to the side and right now the floor is getting the frown that is supposed to be aimed at Shawn, the one that says he’s a second away from hauling Shawn somewhere dark and without witnesses.

The floor is totally not appreciating that way that Lassi juts out his chin when he’s mad. Shawn’s grin slips and he lets his hands fall to Lassiter’s leather belt.

“She had a regular time to pick up her dry-cleaning.” He explains, and he has to clear his throat now. “This was a woman of routine…and nothing was going to stop her.”

“The victim?” Hornstock wonders curiously and Shawn blinks again. Lassiter’s eyebrows snap into a deeper frown and he opens his eyes to glance at Hornstock before settling back on the perfectly clean and therefore uninteresting floor. The floor. When Shawn is right in front of him. He’s like Stepford Lassi.

“The victim’s sister,” Juliet answers slowly, frowning delicately as though working something out. “Her sister was getting married and so as maid-of-honor she would have offered to run some errands for her.”

Lassiter lifts his head right then and he and Jules exchange some sort of look, finally figuring out what Shawn had worked out a minute ago.

“Someone knew about the bride’s routine,” Lassiter grunts and narrows his eyes, but Jules practically sparkles.

“The sister was the real target!” she realizes out loud before putting a hand to her mouth, looking horrified.

“Don’t stand there, O’Hara. Get a location on her, now!” Lassiter barks and Jules is scrambling for her cell, and heading toward the door. Shawn can hear the Chief making a similar call behind him and Gus muttering to himself.

“The bride, that’s cold.”

“Not as cold as the groom ordering the hit,” Shawn mutters back over his shoulder, maybe just a little too loudly, judging from the way that Lassi drops his head and focuses on him for the first time all day. For the first time since finding Shawn in that bathroom, if Shawn’s going to be really honest here, for the first time since finding out Shawn sometimes visited Petticoat Junction.

Shawn’s hands are still on Lassiter’s waist. It’s like Lassiter had forgotten all about them, about him, no matter how many times Shawn had poked and prodded and made comments about Lassi needing white shoes with that outfit to look more like a used car salesman, or stepped across the imaginary boundary of Lassiter’s imaginary office, or inquired politely after Lassiter’s recent ex-partner. Each one had only made Lassiter grip his pen harder and keep his eyes down on his desk and yell across the room at Buzz for talking too much, and the janitor for not getting the corners, and the guys getting booked for being too loud.

Shawn heart kicks against his ribs but he doesn’t step back, doesn’t have to with Lassiter stepping in, his chin up. Shawn feels like his face is burning again, on fire. Lassiter is snarling, his gaze traveling up and down Shawn so fiercely that it takes Shawn a second to get his mouth closed.

“What was that, Spencer?” Lassiter asks softly, as though there’s no one else in the room, as though it’s just the two of them again, pressed to a cool wall, a bathroom door. His eyes are dark and narrowed on just Shawn and promising all sorts of private violence. He’s so close Shawn’s wrists are bent back painfully and still Shawn’s not moving them. Lassiter’s hands close around them a moment later, squeezing, and Lassi really has been working out, his stomach is flat and hard when Shawn spreads his fingers to touch him.

“Why, Lassi, now you _want_ me to do your job for you?” he flashes back, looking through his eyelashes, because, really, it’s just _that_ much more flaming. “You seem tense,” he pushes out, and it’s harder to speak than it ought to be, harder to pretend concern. “Have you got ninety-nine problems? Should I even ask if a…”

“Detective… Lassiter… Carlton!” Juliet’s voice is so high that Shawn opens his eyes wide and turns to stare at her. Carlton—Lassiter blinks and twists his mouth into a snarl, but he turns to Jules with his eyebrows up and Shawn is the one with empty hands, stepping back.

“She’s at the station,” Juliet goes on, snapping her phone closed in a way that seems like a statement. “They said she came down because she had some sort of idea about her sister’s…about the murder.”

“Get down there and keep an eye on her.” Lassiter’s growl is quiet, out of breath. He drops his shoulders and looks around, once at Gus, then at Shawn. “And O’Hara…” he calls Juliet back as she’s rushing out the door and Juliet stops with her head cocked. And even though she must make a pretty picture, silhouetted by the light, Lassiter is staring heavily at Shawn. “…Start looking into the fiancée.”

Jules’ mouth falls open, maybe remembering the quiet, sensitive man they’d interviewed, but Shawn’s only got part of his attention on her as she finally nods and heads out the door.

“Good work, Mr. Spencer.” Chief Vick is still on the phone and moving slowly toward the door at the same time, but she directs a brief, intense look at him. He tries a nod, tries to look at her, and scratches his head as he finally drags his attention away from a quiet, controlled Lassiter who believes in him.

“We try,” Gus answers for him like the awesome best friend and sidekick that he is, and later Shawn will go just a little easier on Gus for even considering buying a Beetle to thank him for that. Though honestly, a Beetle? It’s like Gus doesn’t _want_ to ever get laid again.

“That’s 22.50.” The Supercleaners employee is trying to be as quiet as possible, but it’s like everyone remembers her at the same time. Everyone looks at her except Hornstock, who blindly hands over his cash, his shoulders hunched as though he’s trying to be invisible.

“H-stock, is that a new suit?” Shawn remarks slyly as the employee slides two suits draped in plastic over the counter. He steps over to him but stops when Hornstock actually seems to get even more tense, which shouldn’t have been possible, and shoots a quick look from Shawn on one side to Lassiter on the other. “Have you and Gus been out shopping without me?”

“No we haven’t, Shawn,” Gus answers, with more than a hint of impatience this time.

“That was…really something,” Hornstock clutches his clean clothes to him with one hand and gestures with the other at all of them, or just the store, or just the space between Shawn and Lassiter. It’s a big blur of hands jerking around, and at some point he’d gotten so close to Lassiter that his gesture almost disturbs Lassiter’s tie. His eyes stray over to Lassi, again, and Shawn narrows his eyes at the strange flush of color in his cheeks, the soft tone to his voice.

“Yes it was.” Lassiter flinches at Shawn’s reply, probably because it went beyond smooth into smug, but when Lassiter looks up, he’s staring at Hornstock and Hornstock darts out his tongue to lick his lip in a way that looks like a nervous tell. Except Hornstock shouldn’t be nervous, no matter how it feels to have Lassiter staring directly at him.

“Feel free to call on our services the next time you’re stuck, Lassi,” Shawn calls out over Gus hissing at him to be quiet and the shocked “Mr. Spencer!” from the Chief. But Lassiter actually looks at him again, the tight smile on his face that makes Shawn grin back and bounce on his feet, because it’s the smile that says he’s having rough, bad cop fantasies, Shawn’s about 98% sure of that and it’s not like it’s the type of thing he’d get wrong, if he was ever going to get something wrong.

He opens his mouth, but Hornstock is moving, sliding between them toward the door.

“I’ll just be heading back to my office,” he offers, out of nowhere, and Shawn shares a confused look with Gus, then pauses mid-shrug at the way Lassiter puts a hand to his head, over his eyes. He raises his head a second later, breathing out.

“Did you ever get a chance to check out that sandwich place, Hornstock?” The dry-cleaning employee has disappeared again and someone has to say something. The Chief clears her throat as Hornstock turns to give Shawn another wide-eyed look. “The eggplant…amazing, right?”

“Uh…yeah…” Hornstock agrees, all the pink draining from his face. Lassi’s hands curl back into fists, but when Shawn turns, Lassiter has gone back to thinking the floor rivals the Grand Canyon, or that Parthenon place, or some other thing that people stared at.

“You coming, Detective?” Chief Vick gestures at the door, and the thought comes too late that Lassiter had essentially told Juliet to take his car, to take over the case. Shawn straightens right up, watching Chief Vick nod back at Lassiter as though he’d said something Shawn hadn’t heard before she follows the uniform out the door.

“Gus. Sh…Shawn…” Hornstock swallows but says goodbye over the sound of the door chime. “It was... Well it was strange.”

“Likewise.” Gus is the politest man on the planet. Shawn is still frowning, watching carefully as Hornstock’s gaze goes from him back to Lassiter, not really caring if they notice him staring or not.

Lassiter is tense and still by the counter, and then he dips his head in the smallest nod.

“Counselor.”

“Detective,” Hornstock answers and Shawn catches a glimpse of his pale, disbelieving eyes before he scoots out the door and practically runs up the stairs.

“What was that, Lassi? For a second there you were almost nice. It’s like I don’t know you anymore, man.” Shawn demands the second the door is closed and considers if it would be worth it to jump up and down, wave his arms, do the Running Man, anything to get Lassiter’s attention. Then he thinks that he’s seriously contemplating _dancing_ to get Lassiter to look at him and scrubs his hands over his face.

It’s as stupid to be doing that as it is to wonder just when Lassiter started trusting his visions.

“Don’t tell me you find something surprising, Spencer?” Lassiter grunts at him, one eyebrow up, and then he’s striding to the door, and gone before Shawn can move, or deny such an obvious lie, or tell him that was so many S’s for a single, solitary sentence.

“Damn.” Gus’ short comment could mean anything. But Shawn twists his head to actually see the frown he knows Gus is still directing at him and knows it’s for the way he was acting. Which is ridiculous because Lassiter was the one acting like he found a nosy little blonde girl eating his porridge and sleeping in his bed.

“C’mon, Shawn, let’s go.” Gus actually doesn’t speak for a moment. “The case is…”

“No longer our problem.” Shawn interrupts him and looks up at the clock. And blinks. “It’s 6:11.” He says out loud. Unless Hornstock is working all night doing research for a case, his office would be closed.

“Gus!” For a second it’s all he can say, too many ideas pushing around in his mind to focus on just one. He shakes his head, and waves his hands, frustrated, and Gus is shaking his head too, giving him another Burton Guster special—an eyebrows-lowered, softly-pouting lips combo that says Gus is putting his foot down.

“No, Shawn.” Shawn’s got an offended look on his face without even knowing what Gus is saying no _to_. He just wants to go see what’s going on. It’s perfectly normal curiosity. He’s not _doing_ anything. “I know what you’re doing, Shawn,” Gus goes on anyway, staring hard at him and then throwing his hands up before Shawn can answer that he seriously doubts that, since Shawn doesn’t even know that yet. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me, I won’t want to hear it.”

Shawn’s already got his hand on the door and probably that should make him pause. But his chest feels tight, so he smiles in a very reassuring manner, looking out and waving his other hand back at Gus.

“Relax, Gus, I’ve just got some errands of my own to run. You should get back to work.”

“It’s after hours, Shawn.”

“I’ll call you.”

“I won’t pick up,” Gus snaps back immediately as though Shawn’s not already moving up the stairs, so Shawn answers him anyway.

“Talk to you later, Gus.” Because there’s just so much love in the way Gus glares at him.

He’s out before Gus can really start to yell, hurrying silently up the stairs to the street then glancing left and right until he catches the tall figure in pale blue heading south.

Lassiter stops at a corner, looking left and right just like Shawn had, like a cop who might be tailing someone, who might be being tailed, and then he steps to the left and vanishes down a side street.

Shawn’s not running, so there’s no reason he should be out of breath. Shawn doesn’t run unless danger is involved. And anyway, if he were running, then he’d be chasing Lassiter. Then he’d have to ask himself why he was chasing after Lassiter, so he isn’t running. But he _is_ walking quickly, following the itch in his mind his father had always called a hunch, doing anything to ease the strange knot in his stomach, turning right and watching Lassiter stop outside the bright windows of the building that the Hornstock family had claimed for their law practice.

Most of the windows are dark. The parking spaces out front are empty except for one car, a new silver Jetta that makes him think of Hornstock.

Lassiter looks around like he sees that too, and even from a distance and tucked behind a trellis covered in ivy outside a café, Shawn can see his jaw clench. But Lassiter looks around once last time before using one hand to pull at his tie and heading inside the building.

The thought pops into his head as he follows that Lassiter and Hornstock barely know each other and they shouldn’t be friends, because Lassi doesn’t have friends. Carlton Lassiter is a straight-arrow cop, a straight-as-an-arrow cop, Shawn’s brain asserts forcefully as his fingers close around a door handle. He doesn’t make friends, he makes arrests. He has partners and drinking buddies, but not friends. Wives but not lovers, and he stands for black-and-white, unrelenting justice. Law and order.

Shawn is 100% certain of all of that, because Lassiter wouldn’t be so much fun to tease if he had any sort of sense of humor, and because Lassiter made it clear just what he thinks of liars, and people who keep secrets, and so Lassiter isn’t the type to sneak away for secret assignations.

Even if he had once secretly slept with his partner. Had a partner for a lover. It’s funny how Shawn hadn’t remembered that until now, though the picture is, like always, clear and crisp and bright. Lassiter had been with a beautiful woman, a woman who had smiled softly when Lassi’s finger had trailed gently through her hair. Gently. Softly. Tenderly. The words echo in Shawn’s head the way pain radiates out from a bruise. The way his body had ached after being pushed against the wall, into the police car, crushed under Lassi, warm and sore and throbbing.

It’s dark inside the building, most of the lights have been turned off, and from somewhere in one of the rooms, he can hear the loud hum of a vacuum cleaner not quiet drowning out the tropical sound of some kind of dance music. It’s in Spanish but Shawn spent enough time teaching salsa to seniors to know that it’s not that. Once he gets closer he realizes it’s Shakira.

If the cleaning women are there, then the offices have to be closed. Yet the front entrance had been left unlocked. Unlocked _for_ someone, Shawn thinks, sliding along a wall and peering around, not seeing any sign of anyone.

The music gets louder once he’s past the reception desk. So does the vacuum and the sound of someone, in a deep, manly voice, singing about how his hips don’t lie. Which, okay, his bad. Not cleaning women. A cleaning man. And Shawn maybe have been wrong about it being a woman, but with a song like that playing, nobody would blame him for assuming a woman, except maybe his father. _Don’t assume things, Shawn, that’s when people make mistakes._

Shawn…he doesn’t make mistakes, but if he ever did, it would be because the evidence was missing. That made it his job to look everywhere until he found the right clues.

Hornstock’s office, his new office, is bigger than his old one, further down the hall, with a bigger door. Shawn’s not really someone to hesitate.

The door’s been left open a crack. Shawn steps around the little sliver of light and leans against the wall, straining to listen over a vacuum and an extremely untalented American Duos-wannabe janitor and something pounding in his ears like a freight train. Which, in all the places he had been, in all his many jobs, Shawn has never actually heard outside of on TV, but _something_ is rushing faster and faster through him as he puts his ear to the door and hears Lassi, still speaking through clenched teeth.

“I thought we weren’t doing this again,” Lassi’s voice rumbles even through the wood, low and quiet, and Shawn doesn’t need to close his eyes to remember Lassi drunk and whispering things to him that he never would have said sober.

But he’s not drunk now; he was on the job and anyway, Shawn would have noticed. He pulls away from the door and puts his hands carefully against the wood, on the wall, holding himself still as he peers inside the room.

“Gus…” he almost whispers, remembering just in time that Gus isn’t there, that Gus hadn’t wanted any part of this for some reason.

Lassiter’s back is to the door, only half of him visible. But Shawn can see Hornstock standing behind his desk. The top is bare of anything work-related, the two plastic-wrapped suits laying on one edge, over a phone. Hornstock’s eyes are wide, and he wets his lower lip without looking away from Lassiter’s face, and Shawn is frowning, because he can’t see Lassi’s face at all. He sweeps his eyes over his body, over the tight fist that Lassiter relaxes and smoothes over one thigh.

“Are you saying no?” Hornstock blinks and then his mouth tightens and he glances down. “I saw you,” he admits quietly a second later, and whatever it means, Lassiter moves.

“Shut up.” In two steps Lassiter is in front of the desk, probably giving Hornstock a good scowl to make sure he learns to mind his own business. He might even tell him that, Shawn thinks, only Lassiter doesn’t say anything like that, and he doesn’t make a move to leave when Hornstock lifts his chin and gives him an awkward little shrug.

“I saw. I mean…I understand.” He acts like he’s explaining, except he’s not explaining anything, and Shawn frowns, putting his face against the edge of the door, letting it press into his cheek as Hornstock pulls open a desk drawer and reaches inside. A moment later he tosses some things onto the desk and slides the door shut.

He’s bright red and looking down, not at Lassiter, so Shawn looks down too.

And…it must be some chemical from the cleaning in the air, because he can’t breathe. His skin itches and burns and when he takes his eyes away from the hallucination in front of him the image is still clear and Polaroid perfect, just like a memory.

“Gus..?” Shawn half-turns, but Gus isn’t there, and what anyway would Gus say? Tell him that even Shawn gets it wrong sometimes and stick his nose in the air?

 

Shawn is never wrong. Possibly, occasionally, _temporarily_ mistaken. Sometimes slow to see what he should. But never ever wrong. He’s won thousands of dollars and woken up next to countless stranger to back him up whenever he claims that to irritate Gus. So Lassiter is going to laugh in Hornstock’s face, lean his head to the side and sneer in a smooth voice, before he gets really angry.

Lassiter reaches out and his fingers stroke slowly once over the top of the box and the little bottle that Hornstock had tossed at him. He doesn’t say anything, and Shawn still can’t see his face no matter how much he shifts impatiently against the door. The edge of slight sweat stains on Lassi’s collar and the sweep of dark hair down the back of his neck aren’t telling him anything.

“No?” Hornstock asks again, one eyebrow up as though he was still in court, but Shawn’s staring at Lassi, at Lassiter, his hands curling into the wall when Lassiter finally speaks.

“Come here.” It doesn’t mean anything, the denial streams through Shawn’s mind more than once. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s not an agreement, but Shawn puts his hands over his ears, wants to shout out the words of the song just like the janitor, anything to keep himself from hearing that. That…that sounds like an invitation…and Lassi’s not supposed to be inviting Hornstock closer for any reason. If he is, Shawn would have known, Shawn would have _seen_ , and he would have…he would have never let Hornstock come within fifteen feet of Lassiter.

But he has, he is. Hornstock is moving. He’s not smiling though, and if things were what they should be, Lassiter should be frowning. He would have frowned for Shawn, confused and pissed at the same time, because Shawn would have been grinning and stepping forward, just like today, feeling Lassiter stiffen under his touch, watching him just about swallow tongue to keep from shouting.

Shawn replays that, rewinds that and watches it again, sees it until his head hurts and his palms tingle, because right now Lassiter is out of his view, and he’s not snarling or growling or yelling for Hornstock to get out, to get off him. He’s standing still, and he’s hushed, and he…he’s asking Hornstock to come closer.

Lassiter is frowning; he must be. Shawn can imagine exactly the crease between his eyebrows that had always means Shawn was close to getting thrown against a wall, until now, when it means Lassiter is watching Hornstock step around the desk and get closer to him and not complaining once about Hornstock in his personal space, about Hornstock keeping his hands to himself.

As soon as Shawn has the thought his breath catches and he chokes, his gaze flying up, to the back of Lassiter’s head, staring at the sight of Hornstock’s fingers sliding through the sweep of dark hair at the back of his neck, getting too close to the edge of sweat stains on his collar. He’s pulling, urging Lassiter’s head down, and it’s the chemicals, or lack of air from the choking from the chemicals, but he’s seeing Lassiter’s hands, long, slender fingers, reaching. Lassiter is seizing Hornstock’s hips and yanking him forward. His hands spread wide, strong, possessive, and Hornstock opens his mouth even before Lassiter’s lips press against his.

The stupid vacuum cleaner is loud and still Shawn can hear the hungry, pushy, little grunts that Hornstock makes against Lassiter’s mouth. Against his mouth, because they’re kissing, because Lassiter is kissing him, H-stock, a _him_ , a man, with his eyes closed but kissing him like he’s hot for every sound Hornstock makes against his mouth. His hands squeeze, slide up, pull Hornstock closer, push his jacket out of the way, and with one tug he pulls the knot on Hornstock’s bright tie loose.

“No tie,” Lassi orders, his teeth bared against Hornstock’s jaw. Hornstock’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Lassi.” The name is warm in his mouth and Shawn frowns, feeling an ache in his forehead, something sick in his stomach. He thinks maybe he’s been poisoned, doped with something that’s eating him up from the inside. The last thing he had was police station coffee, the last thing that Lassi had too, and maybe that’s what this all is.

Except it isn’t.

“No, no, no.” Shawn shouldn’t be talking, even a whisper, but they aren’t listening and he can’t stop himself. He steps away and swipes at his face, at his eyes, but it’s all still there, still right there, and in a second he’s back at the door.

The teal and yellow tie is gone from around Hornstock’s neck. Shawn sees it curled around Lassiter’s hand for a moment, and then Lassiter drops it, lets it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter. They both step over it as Lassiter shoves Hornstock back into the side of the desk.

The desk looks hard. Like it would hurt, leave marks on soft skin, but it’s Lassiter groaning like he’s in pain, easing his arms around the body he just bruised, lifting Hornstock up, urging him gently down. Hornstock only leans into it, letting Lassi slip between his knees, against him, like he’s been there before. Because he has, Shawn remembers, because this was an _again_ , and again means a _before_. Again means that Lassi has kissed Hornstock like that more than once, touched his body, his back, his hips, removed his clothes, seen him naked. That Hornstock knew how rough Lassiter liked it, that he knew what it felt like to have to have Lassiter’s cock on his tongue, what it felt like to have Lassiter’s fingers stroke gently across his skin.

He hadn’t seen it. Not when he’d dropped down in front of Hornstock in that bathroom and not since then.

“How…?” Shawn murmurs tightly against the wall, clenching his hands when Hornstock makes the soft noises he remembers, pleading, quiet sounds, only he’s making them against Lassi’s throat now, his skin flushed, his mouth pink and open.

He’ll be restless and hot just from kissing, because now that he’s on the desk, he’s got Lassiter pressed to every spare inch of him, and Shawn takes a breath, because he has to turn back. They’ve moved, he knows that, and he knows he can see Lassiter’s face now if he looks.

Lassiter is a straight arrow, Shawn tells himself the way he always does when he finds himself pinned between Lassi and something harder. Older and too pale and seriously uptight. He’s a cop. A cop in a way Juliet will never be.

Shawn looks anyway.

The image burns into his brain, leaving his skin stinging, his body tight. Lassi’s eyes are open, solid, scorching blue that Shawn hasn’t seen for two weeks, but Lassiter is leaning over Hornstock, his tie loose and dangling, his arms strong around him, on the desk, on his hips, holding them both steady as he rocks slowly against Hornstock’s lap. He’s frowning, but it’s a scowl Shawn has never seen, and his lips are wet, red, dark when he bends down and puts them to Hornstock’s ear. He’s bitten them probably, holding back words, or feeling so good he can’t stop himself.

Shawn’s been poisoned in his life before. Food, alcohol. This…isn’t that.

His legs are shaky and now he’s just holding the door to stay up. He looks around again, for the janitor, for Gus, but he’s alone out here, and everything he needs is in there.

Each small thrust has Hornstock gasping, and Lassiter’s frown shifts to the tiny, bitter smile of dark fantasies that makes Shawn turn to press his body to the wall. Hornstock can’t see that smile, wouldn’t understand it anyway. But he has to feel it, like he has to feel the pounding length of the dick rubbing against him. Lassiter’s dick. Shawn tosses his head, moves his feet, and still the idea makes his head itch, makes his mouth buzz and his chest warm.

They’re both still dressed, sweating and chafing in their pants, burning up, and still Lassi hasn’t reached down to free them, to make it easier. It will feel rough, aching, not enough, and Lassi must know it too, his fingers slipping under Hornstock’s shirt to rub patterns into his skin that Shawn can’t see no matter how he tries to focus.

“Lassiter…” Hornstock’s voice is crushed against Lassiter’s shoulder and Lassiter’s fingers tighten, for a second they aren’t soothing, and Hornstock makes another noise into the scratchy fabric of Lassiter’s coat.

“If we’re doing this…” Lassiter whispers like he’s making a threat and this time Shawn makes the quiet sound, his body warm and his blood throbbing as he gets hard. “…Then no talking.”

Shawn bites his lip, twisting his head away for a moment, trying to breathe. His fingers flex on the door but he doesn’t move them, not even when he focuses back in the room and Hornstock’s mouth is open, his teeth in his bottom lip as though that will keep him from whimpering and spreading his legs. He keeps his eyes glued to Lassiter’s face until Lassiter wraps his fingers around Hornstock’s wrists and puts his hands to his chest.

Hornstock’s hands immediately curl into Lassi’s skin, stroking down over his heart and the points of his nipples, across the flat, firm stomach, along his waist.

Shawn’s fingernails dig into his palms. He turns his head to the side, pants against the door, catches the sound of Lassi whispering, breaking his own rule.

“You know?” Lassiter asks through his teeth, soft and furious, and Shawn shudders, watches Hornstock do the same, watches him fall back when Lassi lets go of his wrists. Hornstock is gulping down air and Lassiter’s chest is heaving. “You don’t have a clue how it feels to...” Shawn is straining, but Lassiter doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t move when Hornstock reaches up and slides the pale blue coat off his shoulders.

His shirt is plain white, his holster light brown leather, but Hornstock doesn’t seem to notice that Lassi is still carrying. He moves on to the tie, making Shawn’s eyes burn. It takes him a few tries but then he’s got Lassi’s tie loose, his top buttons undone, and his mouth on Lassi’s bare chest.

“No!” Shawn barely bites the word back, looking up, instantly memorizing the way Lassiter closes his eyes, the way his hands stop at Hornstock’s sides. For a moment he doesn’t move, barely swallowing, then he drops a hand between them. His other slides up, just for a moment, to slide through Hornstock’s sleek, flat shag and yank it up into something reckless.

They’re too close. Shawn can’t hear the zipper, he can’t see any skin, only the motions of Lassi’s arm, the way Hornstock groans into Lassiter’s collarbone and then falls back with his hands behind him on the desk. His head tilts back and Shawn copies him, his mouth open though he can’t catch his breath.

Lassiter is frowning, watching, watching Hornstock’s face, and Hornstock has his eyes closed but he’s not ducking away. He bites his lip and grunts and pushes up, into Lassiter’s hand, firm and rough and gentle. Just like everything else Lassiter is, has done to him, and Shawn aches, pushing forward, picturing Lassi’s hand in blond hair, Lassi’s hand coming down hard on his wrist.

Someone gasps, pleads in wet, twitchy breaths. Shawn can’t close his eyes but the image is there. Lassiter is stroking his cock. Lassiter is clenching his teeth and watching his face and jacking him slowly and it feels so good. Lassiter is hard too, Shawn knows it without seeing even if he doesn’t know details. He wants to know details, and it should seem as wrong as standing here in this hallway, but somehow he missed the details before and that’s why he’s here now.

Lassiter is hard too, aroused and flushed and needy and Hornstock isn’t moving to do anything about it. He just lies back on the desk, sliding down while his hips thrust up, his dick is thick and red, and Lassi’s long fingers are shining and wet. Shawn remembers the taste but doesn’t know the flavor of Lassiter’s skin.

Shawn’s hands are empty, his mouth is dry, and he can’t do anything but rub against the wall and keep watching.

“Do it,” Hornstock is begging. “You want to.” Someone begging shouldn’t challenge, but his chin is up. It’s Lassiter who turns. His eyes flick away from him, to the bottle still on the desk, and Shawn swallows, reaching out and grasping the door.

He turns his head when Lassi reaches out, and the music thumps into that another hip-shaking song, and the cleaner is still singing along, but Shawn can still hear the rustle of clothing, the creaking of the desk as Hornstock shifts.

He can’t look. He knows he can’t. Not when he knows what he’ll be seeing forever. But he remembers Lassiter’s mouth, his hands slow when his eyes were furious, and then Hornstock moans, the sound catching in his throat.

Lassi’s holding back, because Hornstock chokes and then gasps, pleading softly for more. Softly, and Lassiter told him to be quiet.

“No.” Shawn tells the wall, because this isn’t how his luck works, this isn’t what it’s supposed to be. Lassiter’s not supposed to be like this. But he is, and Hornstock’s lying back and taking it, and Shawn’s hard and cold against the wall, listening to the whimpers he makes as Lassi takes his ass.

The motions are slow, regular, the desk, Lassiter’s breathing, and Shawn closes his eyes, sees that face above him, spreads his legs. This is beyond wrong and weird, and for the first time ever he thinks maybe he should have listened to Gus.

The janitor’s in another room, still far away. Somewhere out in the real world where Carlton Lassiter didn’t fuck men, didn’t leave Shawn to go fuck someone he barely knew.

“Yes, yes, please,” Hornstock is repeating, and it’s all wrong, because Shawn would have made Lassi talk, made him growl and flip him over and press him rough to the desk, his body hard against Shawn’s hips but his hands tender over his skin. He would have kept quiet, or tried to, and he’d squirm, he’d wriggle, fight until Lassi was hot and cursing him and thrusting hard, pushing and gasping and filling him, saying his name, watching as he came first.

Shawn’s face is hot as he gasps to himself and reaching down, touching his cock through his jeans, flinching away and then bringing it back.

“That’s right, Spencer, beg me,” Lassiter bites off his name, his breath uneven, and Hornstock twists, his skin slick as he pushes up, sore and warm and hungry. He’s murmuring, begging, whimpering, like Shawn never would.

Lassiter could take him like he’s nothing. Like it means nothing, and still Hornstock wants it. Hornstock had invited Lassiter here for this, knowing what it would be like.

The itch is still in Shawn’s brain, all the things he missed, a thousand crystal-clear images giving him more than enough to make the pleasure sharp and cutting. Like pain, really, and he’s never been into that until now, listening to what he should have…

With anyone else he would have offered to jump in there. But he knows what will happen if he tried, knows he can’t handle that level of fury, of being told to leave no matter what his imagination was giving him now.

Shawn opens his eyes and slides down his zipper, his hand hot.

He wants to look, has to. The desk is rocking, and he holds his breath and glances in. He falls back instantly, eyes shut, flinging one hand up to the wall, stretching out like Hornstock, pinned down. Face down, he doesn’t know when that happened, doesn’t care, but Lassiter isn’t looking at Hornstock. Lassiter’s eyes are closed and Hornstock is face down and pushing back, letting Lassi bruise his hips, mess up his hair, but Lassiter isn’t looking at him.

Shawn strokes himself, seeing scorching blue above him, burning with what should have been hatred. He tries out something else, a new name, a whisper, his mouth sore now that he’s finally said it. Hornstock is groaning, shuddering. Lassiter is silent, but Shawn imagines his lips moving, dark, against his neck, in his ear, shaping his name with a small, fierce smile and then he’s coming buckets, in his own hand, his mind flashing blue and white while he thrusts up, his body a bruise, throbbing.

And for a moment can’t move, can’t process anything, images sparking and fading, his memory fuzzy and slow. He can hear noises, rough sounds from deep in Lassiter’s throat as though he’s fighting back words, and someone else, another man singing that tangos aren’t for three.

Shawn’s starts to shiver and pulls his hand away after zipping himself up.

Hornstock is loud, Shawn remembers that, swallowing and listening to him moan. He knows that, because he had witnessed it, because he had guessed it about Hornstock before it had ever happened and been right.

He frowns, still dizzy, but his mind had given him nothing for Lassiter. No clues, clues he hadn’t wanted to be looking for, and the blank space makes him shudder, because it’s filled from ceiling to floor with blue now, enough to drown him, and Shawn has only ever _talked_ about cliff-diving. Someday. Maybe.

His phone’s in his pocket, and he puts a hand there but doesn’t grab it, because there’s no way he’s admitting any of this, that he was wro…. That Lassiter doesn’t want h… He swallows and opens his eyes, twisting to take another look inside the room.

He sees Lassiter’s face and flinches away, moving back down the hall from memory, to the door, blinking at the sunlight that makes every image flare that much brighter.

Then he pulls out his phone and hits the speed dial.

Gus picks up after two rings, like he always does, and Shawn turns his face away from the street, trying to fake his way through a smile.


End file.
